


The Medic (or How To Survive When Your Planet Is Dead)

by Anorabug



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Exploration, Gallifreyan Names Are Weird, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hints of Gallifreyan Culture, Medical, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, TARDIS Coral, Time Lord Physiology (Doctor Who), Time Lord Technology, survivor's guilt, very short chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22143919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorabug/pseuds/Anorabug
Summary: A Time Lord soldier is handling TARDIS coral when they suddenly regenerate and are flung through time and space. How will they cope with their newfound isolation- and freedom?A tale of exploration.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

The suffocating smell of dust and smoke. Crackling bolts of green and discordant blue beams. Flashes of gold cutting through the darkness. The crimson sky of a planet burning.

A man in armor lays in the shadow of a crumbling wall, heaving a breath. Beside him, another person is shoulder-deep in a small satchel. Their hand closes around something- a bottle of hemostatic powder, a disinfectant… a piece of coral, brushed with their fingertips… 

The man cries out a warning, but it comes a moment too late as they turn to meet the blue laser aimed for their back. It strikes them below the sternum.

Gold dust. Blinding light. A crack of displaced air. A hand, clenched around a fragment of coral. 

The sky burns.


	2. Chapter 2

An uninhabited planet orbiting an unremarkable class K star. The surface is barren, but below, colonies of colorless microbes slowly digest their way through the crust. Far-reaching caverns are sparsely illuminated by sunlight filtered through crystal. The atmosphere is thin, but oxygen fills these bubbles, a simple metabolite produced by the microbes. Change here is agonizingly slow, practically invisible, and absolutely silent.

This silence is broken by a rush of air and the thump of a body hitting the floor. A breath, dusted with gold, escapes cold lips, and is drawn in by the coral fragment in their loose grip. 

Slowly, the caves grow. Slowly, the coral grows.

The fragment becomes a stem, becomes a body, becomes a massive structure branching through the cavern. Its tendrils pierce the walls, searching out minerals to supplement its diet of artron energy. Its surface is porous, beige in color, and deceptively still, but if one were to listen very, very carefully in the quiet of the dim cavern, they might hear the faintest of humming. 

The coral sings. 

The Time Ship grows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby TARDIS. Here she comes.


	3. Chapter 3

Dusty eyelids open.  
Muscles twitch and creak.  
Hollow ribs heave a breath.

“Fuck. Did I get shot?”

The medic is awake.  
Yes, that’s medic with a lowercase M.  
Bekorvalesquingannovan is not a renegade, after all; they are a front-line healer, one of many. Nothing is particularly special about their designation. They have no reason to use a pseudonym yet.

Although considering their species' ostentatious tradition of very long names, most people have decided to shorten them just a little bit. Bekorval will do for now.

Speaking of which, When exactly is Now?  
That's Now with an uppercase N, and When with an uppercase W, because both are particularly important at the moment.

It should be an easy question. Generally, the separation between Then and Now is fairly slim. The most recent Then that Bekorval can recall is a battlefield and burning pain.  
As such, Now should be a few hours after, and they should be waking up in a dusty crevice someplace, hopped up on artron energy and ready to leap back into the fight- or maybe some member of their battalion has hauled them into a building someplace, considering how wonderfully quiet it is. How thoughtful.

Good. We've figured out Now. We're all caught up to Now. Pinned it down, put a stamp on it, firmly established Now.

Now is a good time to look around.

Oh. This isn’t a battlefield. Or a building- those tend to be more brown, or concrete-y, or made of wood. This is not at all familiar.

It smells like quartz and emptiness and the planet’s velocity is different and the taste of ash is missing from their dry tongue-

Something has gone terribly wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

The lonely planet is spinning. The medic is awake.

Their breathing is fast and harsh. Their throat is dry and their head feels like sand.  
Their hands are foreign, long-fingered and knobbly wrists where before had been calloused palms and sturdy muscle. Hollow ribs and lanky, clumsy legs. 

They inhale the scent of the cave. Missing is the familiar stink of dust and metal and blood. In its place is cool sterility. There is moisture, but no petrichor- no plants to release their volatile oils into the rain, no crisp ozone. There is dust, but it doesn’t drift and dance in motes through the air; it is heavy and gray, silicone particulate lining the surfaces of the lonely cavern.

There is something familiar in the air. Some noise echoing through the stillness. Some smell, ancient and yet new, untempered. Eternal and incomplete at once. It is the void, but yet it is rooted in the here and now, as it always has been. It is singing.

And, rather like any quantum particle, like a metaphorical Schrodinger's cat, it changes that it is being observed. Its tune shifts- it’s awake. It’s so very happy to see you again/meet you/exist again/be born. It hums so loudly the dust moves. The resonance makes patterns, concentric rings and whorls. 

It is so very painfully familiar. The remains of a partner- a friend- given new life. Bekorval gives a slow smile, which stretches into a grin... Which would have been terribly out of place on their old face, but seems fitting for this one. They stand on unsteady limbs and fall, more than run, towards the centralmost coral stalk, which now has a door- because what practical and self-respecting Time Ship doesn’t? 

Given that this particular Time Ship does not yet understand the concept of practicality or self-respect on anything more than a very basal level, it has only just now deduced that a door would be a good thing to have, and so it makes one. That smallest of acts was its very first decision- and all of a sudden, like a rush, it becomes a she, a consciousness. The old one is gone. She is new.

A new friend. A new family.

The door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Darling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of rough. No plot, just background.

The first steps into a new Time Ship.

The inside is empty, save for a pillar in the middle with a console around it. The panels are covered with buttons and levers, arranged in seemingly chaotic patterns- if one didn’t read Gallifreyan, that is. In fact, each portion of the panels is arranged in a word circle, summarizing the function of the controls. The default layout.

The new Time Ship exists in a very basic form. She has all of her basic hardware necessary for function- the Reality Differentiator, the Block Matrix, Dimensional Dams and Dimensional Control Units and Relative Dimensional Stabilizers- and, of course, the Time Sceptre. Her Protyon Core, the root of her consciousness, is hidden away deep within the bowels of the pocket dimension she maintains.

Bekorval’s mind is flooded with curiosity and warmth. 

They walk waveringly towards the time rotor and place their hand on it, feeling the resonance of their regeneration energy stored within, and breathing the scent of the void which clings to every Time Ship, old and new. 

She is a very simple TARDIS. An old model. As such, she has no screen to speak of- Time Lords could be a bit impractical that way- and information that the ship’s sensors might pick up were communicated via light patterns and sounds. Bekorval knows how to do this, of course. It was how their old TARDIS functioned. Too bad their new one is lacking in the sensors department. They’ll just have to fly blind for now. 

And fly they must. They have responsibilities towards their squadron and their species. The war must be won, no matter how many times they had to regenerate to do it. It has only been twice for them- once to grow their second heart, owing to the nature of their looming, and this past regeneration, death by Dalek. They have to get back.

“Alright… I’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get back to Gallifrey.”

Lights flash and a feeling of concern comes to Bekorval.  
“No, don’t worry about me, I’m fine. They’ve got stuff to fix me right up. We just need to- Go!”

With this, Bekorval throws the switch, sending the rotor moving and shooting them into the void. The Time Ship rattles and flings Bekorval back and forth while they cling for dear life to the console. Mauve lights begin to flash and a screech resonates from all around them.

“NO, NO, NO, NO! COME ON, JUST A LITTLE MORE! WE GOT OUT, WE CAN GET BACK IN!!”

The lights flash faster and brighter. The screech rises in pitch. The flailing becomes wilder until- with a clank- Everything stops.

A hiss of steam vents from between the console panels, like the ship is gasping for breath. Faint lights illuminate the cabin, running on residual power.

Bekorval leans heavily over the console.

“There’s no way. I have to get back. They need me… they need…”

They slump, nearly collapse. It is astonishing that they have lasted this long, of course, for someone who has been comatose for who-knows-how-long. They should be in a hospital bed or a restorative tank, not trying to solo pilot a TARDIS.

Their mind swirls with calculations, fuzzy and frantic. “No, but if we… Already been… The Time Lock… Can’t…”

It’s fruitless. In their sorry state, Bekorval has no hope of thinking back a way of return. 

Gallifrey, during the early stages of the War, attempted to cut it off at the knees. As it continued, increasingly desperate, they… well, they used all the resources available to them. Millions killed and brought back to life every second. A million Battle TARDISes sprung from the cradles. The results tore at the threads of reality. Paradoxes and crossed timelines and bent space, the Time Vortex mangled beyond recognition- As a result, the Time War became an inescapable Hell. Every single Time Lord had been called back to serve, and now they were stuck…

Bekorval’s escape was unprecedented. Impossible.

But now, so was going back.

They begin to tremble.


	6. Chapter 6

High-pitched buzzing. Darkness creeping at the edges of their vision.

It’s cold.

So cold.

Their chest hurts.

They look at the fingers splayed across the console. The tips are blue.

They stop looking at the fingers splayed across the console.

What happens now? Where do they have to go, if not back to Gallifrey?

Bekorval’s not much for off-planet ventures. They haven’t had time. Their graduation from the Academy wasn’t long before the War broke out. It was a fast track from academics to battlefield healing. The mandatory hundred years of extraplanetary studies have left them with minimal knowledge on how to actually… conduct oneself. Their TARDIS’s Translation Matrix may or may not be functional for all they know.

Anything about their new TARDIS may or may not be functional. They have no idea.

That seems to be a recurring theme. Not knowing anything.

They slide down to sit against the rotor housing.

What’s left to do except fall back on training?

Step one of an unknown situation: take inventory.

Okay. This should be easy. 

Bekorval pats themself down, starting from the head. 

Helmet. Breastplate. Belt. Trousers. Boots. Good. Open the pockets.

Laser cutter. Writing slate. Loose wires. Three days’ worth of pill-form rations. A rock. A med kit, partially used. Open it.

A half bottle of disinfectant. Five amps of anesthetic. A handful of dermal patches with healing accelerant. Two tubes of expanding foam to fill gaping wounds.

That’s it.

Bekorval looks at the spread-out items on the ground in front of them. It’s a sad little pile. They scowl at it, as if hoping to make it produce something more. It does not.

The pills catch their eye. They must be sorely in need of nutrients after regenerating, right? They should be ravenous right about now.

They’re not. Mostly they just feel numb. Numb and cold.

It’s probably best to ingest one anyways. How long has it been since they’ve last eaten? Since they had anything to drink? 

Their mind wanders. Back on Gallifrey, in the Academy. The eve of graduation. They went with their classmates to indulge in a few drinks- the night cycling between solemn and jovial, tossing them back. How many of those people were dead and gone, fallen to a relentless and unfeeling enemy? How many still alive, fighting an endless war?

There’s a lump in their throat. Their nose prickles. They might shed a tear, if their eyes weren’t so terribly, suffocatingly dry.

Desperation tugs at their chest. Enough pouting. They’re hypotensive, nearly in shock, and about to go through another regeneration they most definitely will not make it out the other side of.

They pull themself up on the console. Time to get out of here. If they can’t go back to Gallifrey now, the least they can do is survive until they figure out a way.

Bekorval hits a few buttons and throws the switch. A purpose, for now.

For the last time in a long, long time, a breeze rushes through the lonely cavern as the TARDIS dematerializes.

The planet is silent.

The medic is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting somewhere. Where will Bekorval end up?  
> Who knows? Not them.
> 
> (P.S. I'm looking for a beta. If anyone is interested, please let me know.)


	7. Chapter 7

A lone structure spins in place in an endless void.

This is the safest place to be, at the moment. It’s dark, empty of mass aside from them, and totally isolated. 

Other things used to be here. Given enough time, one might have seen another Time Ship spinning, carving a path through the vortex.

Now there is nothing. Not as far as her sensors can tell, anyhow.

The ride is smooth out here as Bekorval consults their mental maps of the universe to try to find a good landing point… someplace they could scrounge up some parts. Was Aurdin-3386 still inhabited? The markets in the D’ka system? But they have no currency. Maybe Vwyllyngwth could provide a temporary loan. 

That’s it. Vwyllyngwth it is.

“Do you think you can handle the trip?”

A light blinks on the console in response, indignant. 

She’s young and prideful. A hop through spacetime, no problem for her, of course.

“If you’re sure.”

Bekorval circles around the console, turning dials and flipping switches. 

They’re slow and careful. A jaunt into the unknown, an incalculable risk. They can’t afford mistakes.

One more switch and they’re off, tearing through the Time Vortex.

Unfortunately, this particular time ship is missing a rather important part- Vortex stabilizers. Sure, she can fly, but it’s far from comfortable. A bit like the spinning teacup ride at the carnival. A cheap carnival. A carnival with no repairman on payroll. A very, very shitty carnival. 

Once again, Bekorval is stuck grasping a lever for dear life as the cabin spins and jolts out of all control.

A tearing sound resonates through the ship’s walls as they exit the Vortex with quite a lot of sideways velocity and hurtle several hundred meters towards the ground. 

The ground, feeling quite indignant at being hurtled towards, does not find the decency to provide a soft landing.

A deafening **_CRUNCH_**. Concrete dust flies outward and lands with little pattering noises, as if someone had thrown a large handful of gravel and not a whole-ass time machine.

Bekorval stumbles out from a shipping crate which has positioned itself conveniently in the center of a mass of metallic rubble. The doors creak shut weakly behind them when they look backwards with reproach. “Oh, sure, the Chameleon Circuit was an essential function, but the Stabilizers- totally optional, right? No problem at all. Thanks for nothing.”

Well, nothing to be done about it now. Time to set off to-- 

They stop after a few steps out of the rubble.

This isn’t Vwyllyngwth. The planet’s spinning all wrong. 

“How do you confuse Sto with Vwyllyngwth?! They’re not even in the same star’s orbit! What, were there no Nav Adjuncts in the prints either?”

Bekorval doesn’t know what they expected. It’s been that sort of century, hasn’t it?

A frustrated kick to a nearby crate sends a CLANG sounding through the area. They curse and hide behind it, clutching their foot.

Just what they weren’t hoping for. A dock worker, come to investigate. He quickly spots the wreck and lets out his own string of curses, running over to survey the damage. 

Bekorval is acutely aware that their garb does not match their environment. Dusty orange leather sticks out like a sore thumb among the blue-and-gray metal of the crates- the worker’s dark coverall, on the other hand, is perfectly camouflaged. 

He’s standing in front of the mess of warped metal, hands on his head, aghast. They creep behind him, crouched, wracking their brain for information on biological commonalities between humanoids, and decide on a classic.

A quick, decisive smack to the back of his cranium sends him sprawling. 

They heft him over their shoulder, pulling their laser cutter out with their spare hand and slicing through the lock on an intact crate and ducking inside.

A couple of minutes later, the door opens and they walk out, clad in a coverall and carrying their body armor under their arm. The dock worker is splayed lovingly atop a large pile of metal ball bearings.

He’ll be fine in his underwear. Probably.

Where to now? 

They survey their environment. It’s clearly a dock station, meant for some kind of stocking. A couple of small transport carts sit off a good few rows away, but the domineering figure of a huge starship towers over the area.

At least, they think it’s meant to be a starship. It doesn’t really have the typical features of a space-faring vessel. It’s long and sharp, tapering into a wedge at the bottom, with four enormous pillars on the top, and what look like open-air decks. Aside from the huge propulsion engines, it looks more suited to water than to space, really. Perhaps it’s some sort of novelty vessel?

Whatever it is, it’s got lights on inside… and looks mostly empty. A couple of cranes slowly lift and move crates about. Massive hoses are hooked into the hull, pumping fuel or water or who-knows-what into the tanks, but it’s not exactly bumping with activity.

It’s being stocked up for a trip. That means there are resources inside. 

Bekorval ducks about between crates and makes their way to the base of the vessel. It’s firmly seated in the dock, supported by heavy metal scaff. A few bridges were set up to cross into and enter the bowels of the ship.

They toe their way slowly across, eyes darting around to watch for nearby workers who might spot them. Nothing.

One last step through the doorway and they’re in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This damned ship.


	8. Chapter 8

In the belly of the metal monolith. The hunt for resources.

They take a whiff of the air. Moisture, soap, and a hint of copper, coming from down the hall. Bekorval trots past crew cabins and into the bathroom. There it is- a shower. Cleanliness and hydration, come hither.

The water pumps have been pressurized, but the boilers are not active to warm them. No matter. Water is water.

Bekorval emerges much refreshed. Their skin is scrubbed raw, but after what felt like an eternity, they are finally free of dust and grime. They take a moment to observe their new face in the showerside mirror. 

Hooded eyes, dark gray. Thin lips and an aquiline nose. They grin, inspecting their teeth- gums a bit too dark red, cuspids a bit too sharp. The veins on their wrists, too, are dark, almost orange through their skin. Hollowed cheeks, angled chin- everything about this new body is sharp. Hungry.

Speaking of hunger, Bekorval’s nose twitches. However long they had been asleep, it had been entirely without food. How long was it?

They freeze, suddenly stricken. _How long was it?_

The cradles on Gallifrey were flooded with Huon particles and Artron energy, and to grow a TARDIS took a good eight revolutions around the twin suns. The amount that a single regeneration expels is miniscule in comparison; it could take hundreds of years to feed a cutting enough to grow.

Hundreds of years, comatose. Starving. 

Focus.

They shut the door on the grimmer thoughts which might overwhelm them, given the chance. There simply isn’t time.

Their guts feel like they’re eating themselves from the inside out. Nutrition tablets are one thing, but the meagre rations they’d ingested were nothing compared to the amount of intake they’d need to start reversing the damage of prolonged starvation.

The ship is near-fully stocked at this point, yes? There must be a food supply someplace. Common sense dictates that it would likely be near the kitchen, which is likely to be the crew quarters- Assuming the staff are all housed in the same place, which may or may not be the case in a ship of this size.

There’s a data console on the wall, but the screen is dark. The electrical systems of the ship are still on standby. No navigation to aid them.

Their best bet is to rely on their senses as they had before. 

A sharp knock of their knuckles on the wall. Bekorval closes their eyes and presses their ear to the wall. 

_Knock. Knock._

The clue they were listening for- A muffling of the resonance. They trail the hall, knocking and listening, turning and knocking and listening and turning and-

A thick metal door in front of them. The discordance of low-frequency humming and high-pitched air circulation fans makes their eyelid twitch, but this is precisely what they’ve been tracking down: A refrigeration unit.

They try the door.

It’s locked. Because of course it’s locked, why wouldn’t it be locked? Whomever constructed this vessel must have been concerned with thievery.

How silly of them- who would ever steal food from a space-faring pleasure vessel?

Absolutely ridiculous.

In any case, they can get in. They have… Wires. 

It’s a very old-fashioned system. Keycard entry. Good thing they also have a rock!

_Crack._

The outer casing falls easily onto the floor. Bekorval strips the coated ends of the wires with their teeth. A quick glance at the circuit board, a connection here, scratch through some solder there, and- 

_Click-kachunk._

The deadbolts retract and the door swings open. Frigid air sweeps over them as they step inside.

Frosted shelves line the walls and fill the floorspace in rows. Wheeled lifts and gurneys sit nearby, necessary for the transport of vast crates of goods. The air is sharp and dry, but lacks the staleness of expired produce characteristic of a well-used food storage area. 

As suspected, this is the vessel’s maiden voyage.

In any case, there is no reason to dally. Their pockets are not refrigerated and, unless they plan to rig up a set of electromagnetic coils to their TARDIS, they haven’t the means to cook anything. No matter. The nonperishables are likely to be close by.

Bekorval moves swiftly past rows of shelves in the very, very large room- a long voyage, this is expected to be- until they reach another door. This one is not locked, thankfully. They slide it open and slip into the next area.

They were correct. The smell of milled grain and dried spices creeps subtly into their palate through the lip-cracking dryness of the storeroom.

They lick a finger and wet their nostrils to better hydrate the volatile compounds in the air. Surveying the shelves, they inhale short breaths through their nose. 

One shelf contains crates of dried fruit- they pull it off and bust the lid with an elbow. Dehydrated, vacuum-packed in plastic laminate. They pull out a number of packages and stow them in the pockets of their undershirt. More searching yields meat products, dried vegetables, tinned legumes, jars of preserves- they pack in a large volume of high-energy, nutrient-dense nonperishables. It leaves no bulge in their clothing, owing to the convenience of dimensionally-extended pockets.

A sudden jolt shocks Bekorval out of their gathering. They flail for a moment before regaining their balance. 

The metal frame of the ship begins to hum. Pumps far below the floor pulse and gurgle around liquid fuel. The air around them warms minutely as the fusion cores flare into activity.

“Oh. _Shit_.”

The ship is moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another unexpected voyage. Poor Bekorval.


	9. Chapter 9

Fuel pumps rumble. Fusion cores roar to life. Scaffolding falls away onto the dock.

The monolith is moving.

Panic.

Bekorval makes a run for it.

Monitors and overhead lights click and light up as they sprint down the hall, skidding and slamming sideways into walls. Their shoes scuff the shiny new floors. They couldn’t possibly be arsed to notice. Respiratory bypass kicks in to keep them conscious through their held breath.

The vessel is taking off.

Their Time Ship - their lifeline, their friend - is being left behind.

Past the crew quarters. Down the twisted maze of maintenance halls.

Finally, the door they entered through. 

They try to turn the handle. It doesn’t open.

They slam into it with their shoulder. Something pops out of place. It doesn’t open.

They brace their heels onto the floor and pull the handle with one arm. The metal screeches from the tension. Bekorval’s shoulder juts unnaturally from its socket.

It doesn’t open.

Scorching frustration ignites in their chest and they scream through gritted teeth.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Their planet. Their squadron.

Their body.

Their Time Ship.

Gone.

They might cry if they weren’t so incredibly furious. 

Furious at themself. Furious at this bleeding ship. Furious at the Time Lords and their adversaries and their endless war.

Wait. No, no, no. They can’t think that. Those are traitorous thoughts. Renegade thoughts.

There are no conscientious objectors in the Time War. No hesitation on the battlefield. Nothing less than complete loyalty to your planet and your race and your Lord President.

But all of that is gone. They’re not on the battlefield anymore.

So they curse and scream and growl, they condemn the Daleks and the Taalyens and the Morlontoa and the Cyclors and the Gallifreyan High Council to the deepest pits of the infinite Void; they shout and rage until their wind is gone and they feel paper thin and so, so fragile.

They’re more alone now than they have ever been, and isn’t that just so fantastic? Isn’t this the best thing that could have happened?

With a deep breath, Bekorval braces themself against the wall, holds their arm out in front of them, and pulls. The joint slips back into place with a slick grinding sound and a pop.

There’s nothing to do now… Except for waiting it out. They can only hope that the ship will return to its maintenance deck on Sto eventually, and that their Time Ship won’t be moved in the meantime. 

Cradling their throbbing shoulder, Bekorval trudges back towards the crew cabins. They have no right to be tired again this soon after sleeping several centuries away, but they just can’t stay awake any longer. Their gangly limbs feel like dead weight.

Open a door with a foot. Crawl into a thin-matted cot in a cubby in the furthest corner. Tear open a package of dried fruit mix and down it.

Tip backwards into nothingness.

Dream of spinning through the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I made it angstier. Again.


	10. Chapter 10

Voices. Shuffling footsteps and fabrics.

For just a moment, it sounds like… home.

The next moment, it sounds like the barracks.

Then they slide unpleasantly into awareness.

Bekorval is on the ship. The crew cabins. 

This must be the crew.

Laying still, they open one eye to peek out of their cot in the corner.

A number of humanoids mill about, chatting with one another and generally preparing for their shifts. The ones who are dressed don white aprons and cylindrical white hats.

Conceptually, Bekorval knew that many species follow a similar body plan, but they weren’t quite prepared for… This. The crew look like Gallifreyans. 

Bekorval closes their eyes and breathes.

No. The staff are not Gallifreyan. They are Stovian.

There’s a degree of cognitive dissonance with their eyes open, but the distinction is clear without the distraction of vision. There’s virtually no telepathic presence and the language isn’t even remotely similar. No, the only Gallifreyan in the ship is Bekorval.

There’s no reason to keep checking. It would drive them mad. Best to just find something to do.

Bekorval puts up a hard block in their mind. There’s no way to communicate with their Time Ship at this distance, so there’s no reason to keep those channels open; just another distraction they don’t need.

Not to mention, Bekorval has never exactly been the most gifted at sending or receiving signals at a distance. They’re very much a tactile Time Lord. Touch telepathy runs strongly through their House.

They shift their body around the cot and stand. A couple of the staff glance their way, but only one approaches.

“Ghzzchvvz. Whfghhzyv ghrkhzv?”

Bekorval blinks.

Right. No Time Ship, no Translation Matrix.

They hold up a finger in the “wait a moment” gesture and smack the heel of one palm against their temporal bone, as if they were trying to get water out of their ear. 

Manual recalibration- comes in handy.

“Sorry. Say that again?”

“Wow, what an interesting accent! You slept like tar. You had drinks before boarding?”

“I slept like a what?”

“Like tar, you know.”

“Ah, yeah. I did sleep… Like tar. Very much so.” Bekorval tilts their head. “Is that a good thing?”

“Ahahaha! You’re a funny one, you are,” laughs the fellow, patting Bekorval’s arm in a friendly manner. Bekorval twitches. “So what are you doing down here with the _cooking people_? You look like you should be with the _tools people_.”

“Oh yes! Right. Uh, I’m here to… Use tools on the cooking machines,” Bekorval smiles, trying not to show their teeth. Was it considered a sign of aggression in this species? 

Best not to find out.

“Well alright then! We’ve got a bad _hot top_ in _cook workshop_ 4\. Will you go make it better?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Thank you.”

“No problem, sleepy. We’ll be getting ready for the big feast soon, so it needs _to do work_ , yeah?”

With that, the man walks off to chat with a couple of other people who are still getting ready.

Bekorval shakes their head. It’s a very good thing that they took the advanced languages course in the Academy. Nearly fifty million planets’ worth of linguistics and it’s finally come in handy.

Well… No education is perfect. Vocabulary and figures of speech change so rapidly that it’s impossible to keep up with for an outsider. As long as the foundation is solid, though, most any language can be understood throughout the course of a species’ history. 

No reason for Bekorval to just stand around. There’s officially one person who expects something out of them, and ditching out of that- after everything that’s happened- feels wrong somehow.

Bekorval makes off towards the kitchen- Kitchen 4, he said? Well, they recall passing through a kitchen near this area. Maybe it’s the correct one.

Just this one thing to do, then they can wait it out.

Just one thing.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s not difficult to backtrack. Even if they didn’t remember the way, the bustle of the cooking staff and the cacophony of kitchen utensils is unmistakable. 

They stop in front of a closed doorway just as someone comes walking out, funny cylindrical cap in one hand. Finished with their shift, perhaps.

Bekorval steps in front of them.

“This is cooking workshop 4?”

The woman stumbles, nearly colliding with them. She huffs and glares. 

“Yes. Now move, _tools person_.”

They shift to the side. She shoves past them, grumbling. 

Bekorval pushes the door open. The inside is just as they recalled- albeit a bit busier. 

Well, one might call it ‘a bit busier’ in the same way one might call a hurricane ‘a couple of clouds.’ That is to say, it’s absolute chaos. 

There are obviously at least four kitchens, but this one is filled to bursting with chefs and staff all chopping and frying and dressing and shouting. Not a single one of them appears to be at ease. At least one person is crying. Something looks like it’s on fire.

Gallifrey has generally progressed beyond the need for food preparation, instead preferring to receive the necessary nutrition in the form of compact pills and the occasional fresh fruit or vegetable.

This room is barely-organized chaos.

It should be culture shock. 

On the contrary - it feels just like the barracks. It’s instinctive that Bekorval would fall right into line.

Their head turns sharply at the sound of an authoritative voice. A woman marches through the kitchen as she parts the crowd of busy chefs like a drop of soap on a greasy pan. Bekorval’s back stiffens as she approaches.

“You’re here for the _hot top_ ,” she states sharply. 

It’s not a question, but Bekorval still nods.

She points behind her without looking towards a cooking station with a load of empty pans and utensils stacked on top. “Go fix it. You have twenty _split_ to get it done or your pay gets cut.”

Straight to the point.

Although it’s not much of a threat - Bekorval’s not on payroll.

The boss has already moved on to snap at someone else, so time to get to it. Bekorval slips between two people holding platters and behind one woman with a sputtering frying pan. They grab a washing bin and sweep the cookware into it, shoving the whole thing into an out-of-the-way corner of the floor, and duck between the stations.

Troubleshooting time.

The noise of the kitchen is all but tuned out as fingers sweep the edges of the cooktop. Something catches - A latch holding it down. The whole metal sheet is pulled up and off. Underneath sits a series of dense induction coils and a few different nodes - some type of sensor. A glance reveals no defects, so they slide the casing back on.

Well, the top is fine. How about the bottom?

Bekorval slides uncomfortably onto their side beside the stove.

It’s pushed all the way back against the wall - How inconvenient. There would be some serious issues if they were to push it out into the middle of the kitchen. 

Only one alternative. They slide back out into the corridor and shake their arms out in preparation. 

They squat down, planting palms around the base of the appliance, and slide it upwards against the wall. Metal slides against metal with a slick brushing sound, but nothing catches or screeches, thankfully. Everything is still new enough to function smoothly.

How long it will take for everything to start falling to pieces is anyone’s guess. It’s a dubious sign that the stoves have already begun to break down within the first leg of the voyage.

Twisting their head to peer underneath, the problem is obvious - a power connector came loose. It dangles below the stove, taunting.

Bekorval groans in exasperation and shifts the weight of the stove to one arm. 

They glance around. At the workstation next to them, a cook has stopped in her tracks, mouth agape. Something in a frying pan sizzles angrily without her attention.

They gesture at the underside of the stove. “Power cord. You want to hold the hot top or go underneath?”

She makes a baffled noise. “Hold THAT? Do you make water?”

“Do I what?” Bekorval frowns. “I need to fix this. Will you help or not?”

She shakes her head in disbelief, but slides to her knees nonetheless. “Lift it up more.”

Bekorval complies. She gives them one last dubious glance and crawls underneath.

The sounds of wires rustling and someone bumping their hands into things echo from below. 

“I haven’t seen you before,” the cook calls out from under the stove. “My name’s Ister.”

“Bekorvalesquingannovan.”

“Spice your shoulder.”

“What did you say?”

Ister snorts. “It’s for when you sneeze. Where in _the sizes_ are you from, another planet?”

Bekorval squints. Is it that obvious? They went through all that trouble changing their clothes, too. 

Do they lie? Tell the truth?

The choice didn't need to be made, as Ister comes out from beneath the stove a moment later. “Good thing I had tape. Stupid things, isn’t this _star crate_ new?” She shakes her head. “Capricorn is failing fast. I should never have taken this job, but what else is there to do?”

“You could be a... tools person. It doesn’t seem to be all that difficult,” Bekorval states. 

Ister laughs, even though it wasn’t meant to be particularly funny. “If you say so. Ah, _lashes_ , my _sideways_ onions!” She grabs the pan’s handle, hissing, and inspects the charred contents.

Bekorval takes the opportunity to slip away.

They never intended to socialize.

The one thing they had to do is done. _Bekorval_ is done. It was just a momentary distraction from the waiting.

More waiting awaits them. 

Fantastic.


End file.
